


Special Delivery

by mhunter10



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manic Episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-11 18:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15321381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mhunter10/pseuds/mhunter10
Summary: Ian’s gotten so good at predicting an episode, he can plan ahead with the help of an app.One time it not only saves his life, but changes it.





	1. Alive and kicking

It's gonna be bad. He can already tell just by the way it feels like Monday on a Wednesday. He gets out of bed but wants to immediately get back in it. He makes breakfast, he gets dressed, he leaves his house and none of it feels like it's actually happening. He’s noticed his body acting differently towards his meds for a month. It makes him want to throw up just thinking about taking them but he does anyway because he’s supposed to.

He has a whole list of everything he's supposed to do when he feels it coming on...mania or depression, there's steps he has to take. It's become more of a security than a precaution. It works, so why stop?

By the end of the day, he knows without a doubt it'll hit in the next twelve hours, maybe even less. He barely makes it to bed before the sluggish feeling sets in. He’s not quite on empty but he’s getting there. He plugs his phone in and wishes he could charge himself; he hates knowing he’s about to be dead and useless. It's a small comfort when he opens the familiar app that sets in motion a series of alarms and automatic actions. It'll even keep his phone from exploding in a fiery mess next to his head.

Ian lays back on his pillow and stares at the ceiling. He’s afraid. Every time, he's afraid. What if this is the one? The one he can’t come back from? The one where he gives up? A little alert will ping and tell him his family loves him and will see him at Liam's recital, but will it be enough this time?

He closes his eyes, hoping something new will bring him back to life.

♡

His eyes feel heavy when he opens them. He can feel the dried tears on his face but there's nothing he can do about it. He lifts his head just enough to read a reminder from himself that he'll be okay, before going back to sleep.

♡

He talks to Lip for a while and can't even muster up the anger at how much convincing it takes for him not to come to his rescue. Fiona’s no better but it hurts less.

♡

A ping tells him to at least wash his face, so he does. He even sips from the faucet like a fucking cat. He feels like leaping out a window when it dares him to take a shower the following day.

♡

He hates it. He hates it all. The constant fucking alerts to not die in his bed all because his brain can't manage it sometimes. Fuck it all. He's so alone. It sucks. It's awful and he doesn’t think when his phone smashes against the far wall of his room. The battery falls out and Ian goes dark.

♡

Ian can hear the knocking but he can't make himself care enough to figure out why. It gets louder the longer he stays put. Unsurprisingly, he drifts back into a deep sleep that feels so final it's a relief.

♡

"Ay...ay, buddy! Yo! You okay?"

There's a hand on him; firm but gentle.

"I got my phone ready to call an ambulance, but if you're fucking drunk tell me now," the voice warns sternly, but with still a hint of sincerity.

It takes a moment, but Ian moves his leg slightly and feels the guy let go of him.

"Fuckin' Christ, man! Thought you were fucking dead." The bed dips like the guy's just decided to take a load off.

"Go away," Ian says halfhearted.

"What's that, mumbles?"

"Leave me alone."

"What? You fucking asked for this, didn't you?"

"Jesus! Just--" He doesn't like how that sounds for some reason, and it’s enough to get him up. It's the most he's exerted himself in days, so when he sees who's talking it nearly knocks him back down.

It's a guy, alright, shorter and more stocky. He’s got blue eyes and dark hair under a bright green hat that matches his shirt. His skin is a light pink from the sun, but it's the pink of his lips that has Ian licking his own.

"Look, I don't care if you like to OD on drugs. I'm just doing my job, so can you just give me a good rating so I can go? I got other houses," he says, looking directly at him.

Ian can’t figure out what he’s talking about. The words crash on his ears and get jumbled around, and the guy saying them is probably around his age and most definitely judging him. Only one thing jumps out in his mind first, though, when he sees the tattoos on his knuckles.

"How did you get in here?"

The sunburn pink goes a shade darker and he bites his lip. He shrugs and scratches under his hat.

"Door was open."

"Bullshit."

"Does it matter how I got in? You weren't answering the door, so I figured something was up. I don't get paid if I don't deliver this shit, man."

"So you broke in to see if I was dead?" This is the most words he's spoken since his episode began, and the closest thing to human interaction. It feels weird, like he might have swung back the other way to mania.

"It's happened before," he admits with all the calm of someone who's been seeing shit like that for a long time. He shrugs nonchalantly for good measure. "So, what? You make orders for after your benders or something?"

Ian can feel himself getting exhausted, so he lays back down facing away from the stranger in his room. He pulled the covers over his head. "I wish I was just hungover."

"You dying or something? That's a fuckton of pills, and none of them look like the fun kind."

"Why do you care?" It's pathetic how sad he suddenly sounds.

"I...I don’t. Just tell me where to put this shit and click the little box on your phone."

"Can't. It's broken. Like me."

There's silence and Ian thinks maybe he's left in frustration. He doesn’t quite remember what he told his phone to order but it must have placed it before his fit. It seems like months have passed since he was clear and coherent enough to care about his survival. Then a shadow appears over him and the sheets are being peeled back.

"Here. Screen is a little scratched but it's alive and kicking, okay?" He holds up the discarded phone. It looks banged up but it's on and has some juice. It pings at him like nothing's happened.

Ian weakly presses his finger to it and a little check appears next to a name and picture. "Mickey?"

"That's me."

Ian nods and lets his hand fall. He's tired and wants to sleep, although he is curious about the guy currently watching him fail to fight off a depression nap.

"You got a nurse or caretaker or somebody, Ian?" Mickey asks, still crouched near the bed.

Hearing his name like that makes his eyes open and heat pool in his stomach. He shakes his head, though, not sure if he's saying he's not sick or confirming there isn't a soul who gives a shit. His phone tells him it's a lie, but who's he meant to believe?

"O...kay..." Mickey nods once then gets up to leave.

Ian falls asleep, half wondering if it was all a dream.


	2. Just enough

Ian wakes up because he realizes his stomach is growling. He can practically feel the stink on him, as he moves and stretches his tired limbs. But he feels more alert, like he’s more than just the dictionary definition of awake. He doesn’t remember dreaming, but images of Mickey are still in his head. He looks at his phone, as it tells him he’s worth it like some fucking shampoo commercial. His clothes stick to his skin on his way to the bathroom and he actually fucking hates it. The squeak of the shower is like music to his ears and he manages to clean himself of at least the top layer of grime. His gums bleed a little when he brushes them. He pulls on a fresher pair of sweats and a tank, and it all really helps. It does. He knows that's the point, but so many times he doesn't even get this far and he has to wonder if it's the pinging, or if it could be something else.

♡

He opens the fridge to find, to his surprise and slight amusement, a basic turkey sandwich on a plate and a tall glass of chocolate milk. He doesn’t know how long it's been there waiting for him to get his crazy ass out of bed, but he also doesn’t waste any time taking it right back to bed with him. He takes small bites and chews, trying to get his body to remember what to do with food. He can count how many times he's made himself sick trying to swing right back into things. It's not like he’s trying to pretend these moments don't happen, but does he have to dwell on them? Fucking, no.

He logs into an app that let's him keep track of how many days it's been, and he can't say he's surprised he's pushing day five. If it had been any less, it would've worried him, and that in itself worries him. When does it ever end? The app also rewards him for completing small tasks like eating literally anything, splashing water on himself, and not fucking slitting his wrists. There’s fanfare for the last one. It's supposed to help. It's all supposed to help, he tells himself. And yet, it doesn't make him feel as good as knowing a stranger cared enough to slap some lunch meat on white bread for him. Damn, he's pathetic. He won't be getting the reward for thinking positively of himself.

♡

Turns out keeping alive is just too tiring, and he’s out before his crusts get hard.

♡

Ian opens his eyes slowly, sensing another presence in the room. It's almost evening, and he can tell this because his curtains are open where they were once closed. He blinks and somehow isn't surprised to find Mickey leaning against his bedroom door, although he gets that same feeling he had earlier when he felt like maybe living wasn’t so bad.

"I'm not an invalid, you know," is what he says first.

Mickey nods, crossing his arms. "I know. And since no one takes lithium to get high, I figured..." he trails off for Ian to respond or not.

"I'm bipolar."

"Cool."

Something like a laugh or scoff erupts out of Ian before he can stop it. He sits up and raises an eyebrow. "Cool?"

"Look, I don't know much about it, but I knew somebody who had it. I know it ain't cool, I just meant--"

"I get it," Ian admits. He does. And he appreciates not needing to have another goddamn teaching moment. Mickey’s cool. He’s cool. It's cool. He doesn’t ask about the somebody that used to be. "Thanks for the sandwich."

Their eyes lock for a few seconds. It gives Ian the strength to fully sit up without feeling like he needs a nap.

"Your favorite, right? Mickey bites his lip, ducking his head.

Another laugh bubbles up in Ian and actually ends in the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. "I like how you put the meat between the two pieces of bread. Genius."

That same deep pink blush from before creeps up into Mickey’s pale cheeks and ears, and he licks the grin he can’t keep at bay. He shrugs, playing it cool like things you play cool. "I did what any upstanding citizen would do."

"Break into my house a second time?" It feels good to talk to someone again. He could probably get a reward for it but the fact Mickey hasn't left yet serves just as well.

Mickey laughs. "You got me there, but in my defense...the door really was open this time."

"Still bullshit."

"Shut up and take your pills, bitch. I made pizza rolls," Mickey says like they've known each other for years rather than a day.

But Ian does it. No ping, no fanfare. Just, a stranger that's cool in the real face of mental illness. Mickey eats most of the rolls and Ian watches him...his mouth, the way he licks his fingers. His dick doesn’t work but he can feel that he wants it to and honestly, where's the medal for realizing how horny he'd normally be in this situation? He swallows half a bottle of water.

"Why are you here?"

"You want me to fucking go, say the word, man--"

"No, don't...just," he feels unsure of himself. He feels like he’s sinking like the setting sun. It's been a good day but not that good. And it's not over; the disorder isn't done with him just yet, he can feel it sneaking back in. He could fight it, but why bother? It's useless and he feels scared. "I'm not going to get better, so why--"

"You still haven't rated me," Mickey cuts him off calmly. He gets up from where he sits at Ian’s small corner desk and comes closer. He looks Ian in his eyes and Ian is afraid Mickey can see the darkness in them. "And sometimes something small is just enough to make something happen, you know?"

Mickey wipes a tear from Ian’s cheek.


	3. Shooting for stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/KkKG33-XtpA -listen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicidal thoughts/ideation/inner monologue, mention of past suicide attempt
> 
> No actual self-harm or suicide.
> 
> Happy ending. 
> 
> Read at your own risk, please ♡

If there was ever a time when Ian wished he wasn’t part of the world anymore, it would've been the time he almost went through with it. He'd been so close on the edge of that bridge with nothing and no one stopping him. And now this felt like a close second. His toes would be curling over the last inches of whatever was keeping him tethered here to this life that didn't feel like a life at all; he would be so ready to free-fall out of living if only he could move. Instead he stayed frozen in his bed with the sheets tangling and strangling him without the release. It would be so easy to find something, anything at all, to do it. But his brain was a foggy, convoluted mush that he swears was gonna leak out onto his pillow and down his throat until he choked. That would be too much like easy. He knows what he's supposed to do when it gets to this, but when does the paralyzed thoughts turn into him witnessing a car crash seconds before he jumped to his death? It was so hard to know when the pain was real. He thought of Mickey’s somebody and his jealousy and fear make him cry big fat tears.

He's a lunatic. What if Mickey saw? How cool was wanting to want to stop thinking about the end? What sandwich could he eat to keep his skin from crawling?

A ping from somewhere says something but it doesn’t reach him.

♡

It seems like all he does is cry. He might just be a giant tear. At least it would be easy. He would probably screw it up. He falls asleep.

♡

The sun is up today or maybe it's the same day as before or maybe it's all just run together now to the point it doesn't matter. He’s dried out for now, mostly because he’s thirsty as hell, but he feels like he could start up again if he didn't think about it. Thirteen missed calls does nothing for him, nor does the fact he missed the recital and dinners and birthdays and funerals and...and...and...

Who's alive now? Who's kicking? What does he have to do to make it stop? What can he do? Anything? Just enough?

The thought of ruining Mickey’s day when he’d find his body keeps him going for a few more hours.

♡

The next day is no better, but he takes his pills, swallowing them with the tiniest drop of water from an abandoned bottle on his nightstand. It hurts like a bitch to move when he wakes up for the fourth time afterwards. His stomach turns and he drags himself out of bed and crawls to the bathroom. He’s lightheaded and shaking. He feels clammy but he’s so dehydrated it just feels like dry heat clinging to him. No sweat. Cotton mouth. Sick. Nothing to throw up, but he heaves anyway. Piss is dark. He crawls weakly up and into the tub and manages to turn the shower on before curling up in a ball to hold in his dying insides. It feels good. He imagines drowning and he hates it.

He’s a failure. A failure who faints under the cold crushing weight that he’s too weak to pull himself out from under.

♡

"Fuck! Fuck, Ian! Hey hey, c'mon! Ian, please!"

The fog clears a moment before sucking him back down.

"Shit! Shit, fuck....hold on!"

He's gone.

He’s back.

"Ian, hey," softer, still panicked. Mickey wraps a towel around him and then another, before scooping Ian up in his arms like a lifeless box to be thrown on someone's porch.

He’s not precious cargo. He should be marked fragile, handle with care, but he’s not.

"I got you. Hold onto me, okay? I have you," he assures him as he comes back to the world.

"M-Mickey?" Ian whimpers, shivering. He knew he still had tears left to cry. He let's them disappear into his soaked clothes and Mickey’s shirt.

He’s placed carefully on the couch, while Mickey goes to find more blankets. He’s back quicker than it takes for Ian to start to think it can't be real. Even when Mickey eases down on top of him and covers them up, he's not sure it's happening. His body is warm and steady and weighs less than the life-sentence that is the disorder. It makes him feel less scared. He closes his eyes and hopes the dream doesn’t end.

♡

Ian wakes up and it's either really late or really early. There’s a lamp on in the corner that hurts to look at so he focuses on the man laying with his head on his chest and rough, tattooed fingers at his neck. He looks down and finds Mickey awake too.

"Mickey" He breathes, their faces close. "You're here?"

"That's me. I'm here." Mickey runs his fingers through Ian’s hair and down his face, his eyes darting everywhere with calm concern. "What was that? Were you trying to--"

"No," Ian sighs, piecing together just what happened to him. "I wasn't. I don’t want to--"

"Good."

Yeah. It is good. It's the truth. Ian can feel that he doesn't want to leave. Especially when it means strong arms and blue eyes and feeling something he hasn't in a week it seems.

"How?"

"Door."

Ian asks, "Why now? Why me?"

Mickey pauses, thinking while his fingers continue to explore. He bites his pink lips and licks them before speaking.

"You know, you still hadn’t rated me," he starts, catching Ian’s eyes. "I'd done my job, delivered what I was supposed to, so I figured that was it. I thought it was the stars I was shooting for, coming back and checking on you. But I realized it was you. Just you."

Ian shook his head. It didn’t make sense. "I don't...I'm not--"

"You are, Ian. You're brave, and so incredible, and you may not always think you deserve to be happy and to live but you do. And you will. This is just a part of you, and I...I want every part. All of you," Mickey admits this in a rush of words backed by the look in his eyes.

If he didn't watch Mickey say it, he wouldn't have believed he did. He could get a million pings with the exact words and it wouldn't even come close to the fire he feels igniting in him. He knows it’s not over, but it feels like something is beginning. He’s not fucked or fucked up. It's a revelation that feels like sparks flying every time Mickey touches him. Hours ago there was nothing that could ever bring him back and he was stupid to depend so heavily on apps to give him the will. But where would he be now without them? Without a stranger finding more in him than just another house?

"Everything?" Ian wants to be sure. He has to be. He can’t stop the feeling growing inside him slowly but surely. It surges like he’s been given new batteries when Mickey smiles at him with a blush in his cheeks.

"Yeah. All that shit." Mickey leans up and kisses his head, his cheek, then his lips.

Ian also knows when it's going to be a good one. He can feel himself bouncing back and building steam. He knows it’s going to be okay. He knows he's loved. Give him all the rewards, all the fanfare. He can feel it coming.

Ian can feel how different this new change is, and he knows it'll be alright.

♡♡♡

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. Uh....I'm still alive but I'm barely breathing...in fact most days I'm melting. I swear I haven't abandoned writing, it's just...not...happening.....not with comments like UPDATE!!! anyway.......☕


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